


On A Dark Desert Highway

by grabthefish



Category: Psych
Genre: Burgeoning Romance at a Bad Time, Case Fic, Drinking, Falling In Love Is Hard On The Knees And The Back And The Heart And The Soul, Fighting, Fucking, Haunted Hotel, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Learning to Love Each Other, M/M, Psychtober, Real Life Locations, Realistic Depictions of Anger, Regret/Remorse, Road Trip, Romance, Secrets, Serial-Killer At Large, Shawn Spencer's Very Special Version of Twenty One Questions, Supernatural Stuff Happens ie) A Case of the Oogedy Boogedies, TW: Semi Graphic Depictions of Hanging, TW: Semi Graphic Depictions of Torture, Trying Honesty, car crash, relationships are hard, snuggle buddies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabthefish/pseuds/grabthefish
Summary: When Juliet is targeted by a devil-worshiping serial killer, Shawn and Carlton join forces to hunt the bastard across California in order to enact their revenge. They eventually find themselves trapped in a decrepit-looking (and definitely haunted) hotel, forced to confront both the supernatural and their feelings for each other in order to get out and get the bad guy.





	1. Song Of Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a dark story and it may not be for everybody, but I promise that the graphic depiction of feelings will be worse than the semi-graphic depictions of violence and that it will be worth it in the end. I don't want say anything more because I don't want to spoil it but all tags and archive warnings were chosen for specific reasons. Feel free to yell at me in the comments section if you must; I wont blame you. Probably.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All errors are my own.
> 
> Happy reading!

* * *

The last thing Carlton remembered before hitting the ditch was the soft sound of Spencer singing under his breath.

Before that, the incessant chatter from the passenger seat.

He’d told the psychic to shut it with less animosity than he usually mustered, too exhausted to argue with the same level of vehemence they were both accustomed to but unable to bear the noise any longer. It had been a long two days after all, driving across the state in pursuit of a man he couldn’t wait to get his hands on.

Never before had Carlton actually craved the opportunity to kill a criminal, but there was a first time for everything. And if anyone deserved it, it was this asshole.

He couldn’t quite believe it when the case had crossed his desk and had it not been for the look of solemnity sketched across the Chief’s face as she’d handed him the file, he would have assumed it to be some sick Halloween prank. But it wasn’t. It was some reject mental health patient high on bath salts or something. Some sick twist serial-killing his way across the county. A fucking devil-worshiping sadist stringing up young women as some sort of sacrifice to his beloved Baphomet.

Carlton had almost hurled at the sight of the crime scene photos, his stomach curdling as he pictured the hell those women had gone through prior to their asphyxiation. He _had_ hurled after the coroner informed him it hadn’t been prior, but during. That their perp had strung them up just enough to hurt, raising and lowering them like human fucking yo-yos as he cut and burned and melted their flesh, keeping them barely breathing and hovering on the precipice of consciousness. Hoisting them to fatal heights and allowing them to choke to death on a combination of rope and terror as they poured their lifeblood into the sigils he had sketched into the ground below.

It wasn’t a real practitioner, Carlton knew. He wasn’t Head Detective for nothing, after all, having learned through copious amounts of research that the average Satanist tended to be both peaceful and passive. But that didn’t make it any better. In fact, it almost made it worse when that information led them to a guy that led to a clue that led to O’Hara going undercover in an attempt to catch the rat bastard.

He had protested, of course.

Carlton had protested more than he had ever protested anything in his life.

O’Hara had been pissed at him for it, thinking his reaction was undermining her skills as an investigator, but Carlton didn’t care. She was exactly the type and he couldn’t bear the thought of what could happen if things went pear-shaped. For three days after he’d had nightmares, the crime scene photos swimming through his head, every victim’s face turning into hers. Every victim’s screams turning into hers. Which is what made it so much worse when his fears became reality, the fucker spiriting her away before they could bust in and catch him, a chloroform-soaked rag left at the abduction site mocking him as he stared.

Spencer had been called in then. He’d wanted to be in on the case since the beginning, but the Chief had said it was too dangerous to involve civilians. Once O’Hara had gone missing, though, the cavalry had been rallied, regardless the cost. They couldn’t lose her, _wouldn’t_ lose her, and it didn’t matter what it would take - each and every one of them was willing to sacrifice everything in order to prevent it.

Juliet was their best. She was their brightest.

O’Hara was their heart and fucking soul.

Twelve hours later, they’d found her hanging from the rafters of an abandoned warehouse on the east side just off highway 101, her legs still twitching beneath her body as she swung through the air. Whether from struggling to stay alive or the throes of death, Carlton was unsure. He’d just known that he needed to get her down and, ignoring the perp as he’d dashed through the back door to freedom, had shot at the ropes holding her aloft, yelling at Spencer and Guster to catch her as she fell.

Their bodies cushioned hers as she hit the ground and at that moment, he had never been more grateful for their presence.

Everything after that was a blur. The smell of the ocean breeze as it wafted through the door. The sound of his gun as it dropped to the floor. The screeching sirens of backup as it arrived, the Chief shouting orders to catch the bastard, dead or alive. Spencer holding Juliet’s body and the tears that openly fell from his eyes, the man begging and pleading for her not to give up.

Her very faint pulse, barely detectable at Carlton’s soft touch.

The paramedics had arrived scant seconds after the Chief had, prying the psychic away from her and whispering promises they had no right to speak; words of solace and statements of hope that there was no way they could guarantee. Vick had walked over to the men then, all three huddled around as the medics lifted O’Hara onto the stretcher, her voice low and unsteady as she told them that there was nothing they could do but thank God they had gotten there before the mutilation had begun.

That they were lucky the motherfucker had spooked, hearing them coming and only hanging her before he had run.

Only hanging her.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Carlton had nearly snapped at the words, stopping himself solely due to the silent hand placed on his shoulder by their resident charlatan. It was a touch followed by a look, both laden with sorrow, and it reminded Carlton that he was not alone. That they were all suffering and his losing it on anyone, let alone the Chief, would do absolutely no good.

Carlton had stalked off after that, covered in a cold sweat, intending to follow the ambulance in his Crown Vic but finding himself unable to drive. Hands shaking, he’d leaned against his car. The driver’s door was the only thing holding him up as his knees weakened, and he was eternally grateful for the handle pressing into his spine – the discomfort it caused the only thing reminding him he was alive.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before Spencer stood beside him, inquisitive hazel eyes searching his face for who knows what, that hand back on his shoulder as the other tilted his chin up, forcing him to look the psychic in the face. Spencer was hurting too, not only in spirit but in body, his movements clearly stiff after acting as a human safety net.

He should’ve gotten checked out, but Carlton knew there was no way he would’ve drawn attention away from O’Hara, the psychic willing to suffer through his pain if it meant someone could help her through hers.

“Lassie,” he had said, his voice cracking under the weight of the emotion it carried, those searching eyes of his looking lost. Looking scared. “Lassie, what do we do?"

A first for Spencer, the man always insisting he had the answer.

But this time he didn’t, and Carlton didn’t either, and they just stood there staring at each other as the world spun in circles around them – sights, sounds, and smells all fading into nothingness as their respective worlds crumbled.

“I- I don’t know, Spencer,” he had said, Spencer’s hand clutching tight, his fingers digging into Carlton’s shoulder almost painfully.

He stared at the psychic, knowing he looked just as wrecked as he did and doing everything in his power not to break down.

Doing everything in his power to not break down and failing.

“I – We –“ he started, unsure of where his words were leading him or what he could possibly say. “We go to the hospital. Then we find the bastard.”

He paused. Took a deep breath.

“And if we’re very lucky, I put a bullet in his brain.”

Shawn nodded at that, lips pressed together in a cold, determined grin.

A grin that would have scared the crap out of Carlton could he be bothered to care.

A grin that was rictus and manic and anguished. One that somehow made Carlton feel safe.

Less alone.

“Works for me,” Spencer said, taking the keys from the cop’s still trembling hands and gently shoving him aside.

Too tired to protest, Carlton let him.

“Get in,” Shawn said. “I’ll drive.”

* * *

O’Hara was unresponsive when they’d arrived. Not dead, just not… anything, her body having slipped into a comatose state at the shock of near strangulation. Or, failed strangulation, rather.

They’d gotten there last, the rest of the team having sped off as they’d been talking, Gus leaving the Blueberry behind to go with the Chief. Arriving to faces far grimmer than expected – which said a lot, all things considered – they’d quickly learned why when the Chief informed them that she had been wrong about the lack of mutilation. Carlton’s head had spun when she said it, clearing only when Spencer put his fist through the nearest wall, the psychic softly apologizing but clearly not meaning it.

O’Hara had been saved from the worst of it, it had seemed, but the doctors had found a small sigil during their cursory examination; a small piece of hell burned into the sole of her left foot, easily overlooked but still marking her as a victim nonetheless.

It wasn’t long after that Carlton had asked the Chief – _told_ the Chief – to send him on the hunt. There’d been reports of someone fitting the description of Satan’s Right-Hand Man high-tailing it out of the city headed North and Carlton couldn’t just sit on his hands while they waited for news as to whether his partner was going to live or die. He needed to do something – _anything_ – and fueled by a rage he’d never felt before, was determined to bring the motherfucker down, no matter what it took.

What it took, apparently, was Spencer at his side, Vick agreeing begrudgingly so long as Carlton took the psychic along for the ride.

He should have argued. Should have put up more of a fight than he did. He wanted to care, to protest as much as he used to. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. And the Chief didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when he sighed a “Fine” of acceptance to her condition to his trip.

Normally, it would have mattered. Normally Spencer’s obnoxious presence would have triggered something inside him – unbridled lust or equally matched self-disgust at the growing attraction he had for the man who undercut him at every turn – but he was too grief stricken for any of it to affect him like it should. His partner was clinging to life in a hospital bed. His internal battle with his feelings could go fuck itself.

Spencer was there, and he wanted to help.

Everything else was irrelevant.

They’d stopped at their respective homes long enough to pack overnight bags, Carlton barely blinking at the sight of Spencer’s residence as they pulled in to the dry-cleaners-turned-abode. Normal wasn’t a word he’d use to describe Spencer as a person on the best of days, so why would his home be any different? What did surprise Carlton, though, was the speed with which he moved, the psychic in and out in less than five minutes, slamming the door behind him as he shrugged a brown leather jacket over his shoulders.

“What took you so long?” he asked Spencer dryly, the man quickly and quietly sliding back into the vehicle.

Uncharacteristically, Spencer missed the sarcasm entirely.

“Couldn’t find my toothbrush,” he said, tossing his duffel onto the backseat.

Lassiter raised his eyebrow, confused and a little curious. “How the hell do you lose a toothbrush?”

Shawn just shrugged. “Stayed at the Psych office last night. Probably left it there this morning.”

Carlton had cocked his head at that.

“Why are you sleeping at the office when you have what I assume is a big comfy bed up there?” he said, pointing to the space Spencer had just vacated.

Spencer replied, running his hand along the bridge of his nose like it would rub away the sleeplessness Carlton had just noticed written all over his face. “Why, Lassie... I didn’t know you spent time thinking of my bed. Do you think about it often? And with me in it, all naked and writhing about?”

He’d looked at Carlton when he said it, a tired smile in his eyes and on his lips, and when Carlton’s response was nothing but slightly flushed cheeks, he sighed and continued. “Never said I slept there, Lassieface. Said I stayed there.”

“You couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself, five little words that let Shawn know that they were in the same boat. That they shared the same pain. Too much information; information he hadn’t wanted to share. But the little boy-cat was out of the bag now, so what could he do?

He’d expected more snark in response, but the psychic had surprised him, shaking his head no, his face drawn and solemn. “Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see her swinging, Lass,” he said, the admission echoing in Carlton’s head, Shawn’s truth mirroring his own. “I don’t even wanna blink anymore.”

Carlton looked at him a moment, their connecting eyes radiating sorrow, a melancholic bond being forged between them.

“Yeah,” he breathed, turning his head back toward the windshield as he twisted the key in the ignition. “Me too.”

* * *

It was silent for a while after that, the only words spoken their order placed at the Starbucks drive-through on their way out of town, Spencer reasonably insisting they get jacked on caffeine since neither had slept. There was no mindless babbling. No unanswerable questions. Oddly, not even the sound of the radio, which Carlton had been sure Spencer was going to fight him on. Shawn just sat there, head against the passenger side window as he stared through the glass unobtrusively – a trait Carlton never thought he’d be able to apply to the man.

It was quiet driving through Los Olivos. Quiet in Santa Maria. Quiet past Avila Beach. And though it had only been an hour and a half since they’d left their home city, Carlton was starting to find the silence unnerving, the lack of sound combined with the setting sun creating a mood he wasn’t quite comfortable with.

“Do you stay at the office often?” he found himself asking the man, trying to break the silence with something inconsequential; needing conversation but unable to deal with anything heavy. Not really caring about the answer, it was a question he hadn’t planned on asking – but it was something, and something was better than nothing.

Snapped out of his reverie by the sound of Carlton’s voice, Spencer turned his head to look at him, surprised by the query. “Sorry, what?” he said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Carlton shot a quick glance Shawn’s way. “Yeah, I figured that when we passed Dinosaur Caves Park and you didn’t ask if we could stay and play.”

He'd paused a moment, unsure if he wanted the answer to the next question, either.

“Are you okay, Spencer?”

Shawn eyed him curiously, eyes still locked on Carlton’s face even after the cop had refocused his vision on the road.

“Are any of us?” the psychic replied after a second. “Are any of us ever?”

The answer was no, of course, but Carlton hadn’t expected Spencer to get so existential on him, the usually upbeat consultant seemingly deflated of the life that usually had him flying high. But maybe after seeing O’Hara strung up from the rafters, high wasn’t a place he wanted to be anymore. Maybe he needed to be grounded, wanted to be stuck straight to the earth, jet-pack packed away until further notice. Carlton certainly knew he did, needing to find a way to ground himself now more than ever.

Without knowing he was going to, the cop reached out, laying his hand on top of the consultant’s un-bandaged one and giving it a squeeze as it rested on the man’s knee. Spencer had comforted him at the scene; Carlton could bring himself to do the same now, awkward and unintentional though it may be. Because while he knew he came across as heartless at the precinct in order to get the job done, this was one of those instances where shutting himself off would only hurt the people he cared about.

And Shawn was already hurting plenty.

If the circumstances had been different, Carlton wouldn’t have even considered the commiseration, too afraid his irrational crush may be found out and unwilling to deal with the consequences. But this was a special occasion – one he’d hoped to never encounter – and because of that, society’s expectations for him could get fucked. The compassion he offered might help heal them both and he just couldn’t bring himself to add to the pain by denying it, desperately needing the lightened load. Isolation was the devil right now and if either of them succumbed to it, they’d both wind up in a free-fall of frustration and depression, likely to drown when they hit the turbulent emotional waters below.

Carlton didn’t want that to happen.

He _really_ didn’t want that to happen.

An inquisitive shine in his eyes, Shawn simply stared; fingers shifting so their digits interlocked, he opened his mouth to say something but quickly decided against it, mouth almost audibly snapping shut. Curious, Carlton wanted to know what he had been about to say but chose not to ask, the sound of the road beneath them passing time and saying plenty with every spin of the tires. They drove like that a little while, neither speaking words both knew needed to be said, the cop trying to focus on following the killer’s trail and the psychic letting the feel of Carlton’s skin drown out his emotional pain.

It would be a long, weird trip, after all. There would be time for talk after catching O’Hara’s wannabe killer.

But about what, Carlton had no idea.

* * *

Spencer let go about an hour later, releasing Carlton’s slightly numb hand to turn on the radio.

Carlton had almost thought the man had fallen asleep and had been considering slipping free, relieved to find that it wasn’t the case and that Spencer had released him of his own accord. Flexing his fingers, he noted how clammy his palm had gotten and was surprised that Shawn hadn’t said anything, the feeling bound to have been uncomfortable.

“Why am I not surprised this thing is set to NPR?” the psychic asked as he fiddled with the volume, clearly irritated by the detective’s choice of radio stations.

Carlton cracked a wry grin at that, eyes leaving the road for a second as he glanced over. “I don’t know, Spencer. Isn’t this the part where you go ‘blah blah blah, psychic’, then do that stupid thing with your fingers to your head? Shouldn’t you already have the answer?”

Rolling his eyes, Shawn sighed in response. “It was a rhetorical question, Lassiepants. It’s clearly because you’re a stuffy, uptight old man with no sense of fun,” he said, flipping around until he found a classic rock station before he settled back in his seat.

The comment made Carlton pause.

Was that really how Spencer saw him?

He sure as hell hoped not. They’d been working together long enough by now that Carlton had hoped the perceptive son of a bitch would know better than that – know that there was a wellspring of personality in the detective far deeper than that of the mask he wore to work most days.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked, needing to know and seeing no reason not to be blunt about it.

Shawn shrugged.

“When it comes to your taste in radio? Abso-fruitly-lutely.”

“And non-radio related stuff?” Carlton inquired, ignoring the juvenile response as he held his breath for an answer that had the potential to change things between them.

If Shawn didn’t know, if he was walking around with his head so far up his ass that he couldn’t see Carlton for who he really was –

Carlton’s phone rang, the traditional tone interrupting both his thoughts and Shawn’s answer.

Shawn glanced around like he’d never heard a ringing phone before and was wondering where the sound was coming from until Carlton rolled his eyes and informed him.

“It’s my cell, Spencer,” he said. “And it’s probably the precinct. Can you answer it? Without being a jackass, I mean? If it’s news from the Chief, we need it sooner rather than later.”

“But… it sounds like a _phone_ , Lassie! I swear I’ve shown you how to make it sound like something cooler. You didn’t like the rifle fire I had it set to before?” Shawn asked, making no movement to grab it, a bemused look on his face.

“No, Spencer. I didn’t like the sound of being shot at every time it rang. Now can you answer it, please? I’d rather not have to pull over in the dark if we can avoid it.”

Shawn smiled, nodding in agreement as the phone continued to ring.

“Sure, Lass. Where is it?”

Carlton paled as he realized the offending piece of technology was tucked away in his trousers, pressed tight against his leg. “It’s in my pants,” he said. ”Never mind. I’ll pull over in a minute and -“

But Shawn had already snaked into Carlton’s pocket, his fingers brushing the top of his thigh as he worked the Blackberry out of the folds of fabric, Carlton’s protest dying on his lips when the slightly burn-y sensation from Shawn’s hand in such an intimate area overtook his ability to think.

“Lassie’s phone. Super sexy psychic Shawn Spencer speaking,” the younger man answered, earning him a glower from the Head Detective.

“Spencer…” Carlton growled in warning, secretly thankful for the asinine greeting that allowed him to refocus his emotions. A finger from his damaged hand plugging his other ear as he cradled the phone with his shoulder, Shawn flapped his working wrist at the cop in an attempt to shut him up, neither man having been smart enough to turn down the radio.

“Uh-huh,” he'd said into the phone, his face falling at whatever he heard. “Uh-huh. Yeah, okay.”

A pause.

“Yeah, I’ll let him know.”

Another pause.

“Thanks, Chief. You, too.”

The suspense was killing Carlton, the look on Spencer’s face telegraphing that it was bad news. He felt sick to his stomach, part of him dying to know and the other part wanting to flee from whatever information Spencer held as fast as he possibly could. But he was a cop and this his duty, so no matter how much he may have dreaded asking, he had to.

“Shawn -?” he said, the man’s name slipping out, the gravity of their situation diffusing the playful banter they usually had between them. He was always Lassie and Shawn was always Spencer and their refusal to give each other even an inch regarding their given names was practically foreplay for them. But foreplay was the furthest thing from his mind right then, the look on the psychic’s face scaring him.

“How far away are we from King City?” he asked, and Carlton blinked, the response not what he expected.

“About twenty minutes,” he said, voice hardening as he tried to brace himself for whatever was coming. “Why?”

“Vick wants us to pull in there for the night. Their PD has some info for us, it seems. They recognized our perp from the BOLO she sent out and we’re supposed to meet with their Chief in the morning. Name of Nick Baldiviez. You know him?”

Carlton’s jaw clenched.

“Yeah, I know him. Met him at a conference a few years ago.”

“And?”

“He’s an asshole. Way too opinionated for a man who runs a staff of seventeen people. Spent three days stuck in a hall with him trying to tell the organizers how things should be run, as if that backwoods almost-hillbilly had all the answers,” he scoffed, thoughts flitting to a weekend he hadn’t thought of in years. He’d hated the man, not that the man had noticed, and had it not been for the fact that they were both cops, he probably would’ve popped him a good one at some point. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he was a dirty cop, either. Just seemed too…”

He let the sentence trail off, not knowing how to end it and preferring not to get himself riled up. He already had too much on his plate pissing him off. The last thing he needed was to head into King City with a grudge against the man who might be helping them, too.

“Too what, Lassie?” Shawn asked, pressing.

Carlton shook his head.

“I don’t know. There was just something about him,” he replied, answering the question as tactfully as he could, knowing his refusal would just keep Spencer on his ass about it. “He seemed off. Too big for his britches with no reason to be, I guess.”

Shawn laughed, weaker than his usual chuckle but the man still obviously amused.

“Check you out using your intuition, Lassie! I wasn’t sure you even knew the word.”

“Of course, I know intuition,” Carlton replied, a little smug. “You can’t be a good cop without it. It’s also why I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Shawn’s smile warmed at that, the man responding playfully as he deflected, clearly not wanting to share the information he promised Vick he would and doing his best to distract Carlton from it.

“There’s lots I’m not telling you, Lassie. My SAT scores. My secret recipe for pumpkin cookies. The color of my favorite butt plug.”

Carlton’s ears turned red when he heard that, his cheeks quickly flushing the same shade of crimson as his car as Spencer continued listing things off.

“Why I have a hate-on for daddy dearest most days. The thing that got me suspended from the third grade for nearly a month. What I’m getting you for Christmas this year…”

“Spencer,” Carlton sighed, exasperated. “It’s about O’Hara, isn’t it?’

Shawn stopped mid-sentence, Carlton’s words drowning out what he was going to say. His head dropped to his chest and Carlton knew it wasn’t good. He knew it wasn’t good and he felt his fingers grip the steering wheel tight, his knuckles turning lily-white, his breath slowing to almost non-existent as his heart pounded in his chest. It wasn’t good and here Spencer had been joking with him like neither had a care in the world. He’d been sitting here thinking of Spencer’s hand on his thigh and what color plug he liked to shove up his ass and O’Hara was still fucking dying and what the fuck was wrong with them both?

Shawn looked up at him, expression guarded, like he didn’t want to be the messenger that got shot.

“She – I –” he started, staring at the phone he’d dropped into his lap after the call, like looking at it hard enough would make the news go away.

Carlton felt sick. He felt angry. He felt like he was going to kill someone, and if Spencer didn’t answer him soon, it was probably going to be him, regardless of the affection he felt for the man.

“Spencer! Out with it!” he snapped, watching as Shawn flinched and sent Carlton’s phone flying to the floor of his car.

Shawn reached down to pick it up, wincing when he banged his bandaged hand against the glove-box, gingerly setting the cell back in his lap after he’d retrieved it. He looked at Carlton, mouth dropping open for a moment before he closed it again, shaking his head.

“Not here, Lass. I know you wanna know but wait ‘til we get to King City, k?”

He paused, his voice pleading as he finished.

“Please?”

* * *

It had taken everything he had to not wring Shawn’s neck, the knowledge that bad news was coming hanging over his head until they’d pulled into the Fireside Inn just a few blocks from the King City Police Department. He’d grabbed their bags from the backseat after snatching his phone from Spencer, storming towards the front desk to check them in and trying not to think about the fact that his fingertips had grazed something clearly not in the psychic’s pocket.

Standing wordlessly beside Carlton as the cop asked for two queens when offered that or the choice of a single king, Shawn had shifted in his jacket, reaching to take his bag back from the detective only to get his hand brushed away. They were on a stipend, so Spencer knew he wasn’t getting his own room, but Carlton had half-expected a crack about them bunking together and was almost a little disappointed when it didn’t come. Shawn just looked at him gently, the twinkle unexpectedly missing from his eye as he grabbed their luggage from the floor when the cop reached for his wallet to pay, stealthily slipping the key off the counter from where the ugly old woman had tossed it while Carlton was busy signing them in.

He stood silently as Carlton got his receipt. He followed silently as Carlton trudged toward the room through the thick night air. He handed Carlton the key, watching without a peep as the cop let them in and flipped the switch, bathing the room in an ugly yellow glow. Carlton turned to Shawn after that, eyebrow arched as he waited for something to be said – something to be done – and Shawn just shuffled in, not making a sound.

It was really starting to piss him off.

The psychic shut the door behind them and dropped their bags on one of the beds, squeezing past the dresser and the shitty tv to open the mini-fridge, a frown on his face as he noticed its lack of complimentary alcohol.

“Spencer…?” Carlton started, frustrated by the lack of communication. “We’re here. You –“

“Need to find the nearest liquor store,” Shawn finished, pulling away from the icebox and turning to see Carlton crowding his space.

“This isn’t party time, Spencer,” Carlton replied, voice tight with fear and anticipation as he took what he had hoped was an intimidating step closer.

He was tired. He was tired, and he was irritable, and he just wanted to find out the worst and move on with his night. They had a cop he hated to talk to in the morning and a killer he wanted dead to track down after that and he just needed to know what the hell was going on so he could work his way through it and try to get some fucking sleep.

He didn’t need the psychic getting drunk.

This wasn’t a National Lampoon road trip, after all, even though it looked like he’d have to remind the man of that. They were reverse Thelma and Louise-ing it on the hunt for the man who’d abducted O’Hara and if Spencer didn’t share what he’d learned soon, Carlton was going to fucking snap.

“Now would you tell me about my partner, or do I have to call the Chief and get you fired for withholding information?” he continued, brow furrowing as he glared.

Shawn’s eyes flashed, a mixture of hurt and surprise crossing his face as he replied, indignant.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Carlton just stared back, nearing his last nerve.

He most certainly _would_ dare. But he didn’t want to and hoped the man wouldn’t force his hand on the matter. It was true that he hadn’t wanted Spencer on the trip in the first place, but now they were on the road, he couldn’t imagine going on without him. Shawn’s presence – though currently insufferable – soothed him in ways he hadn’t expected, and he didn’t know if he could bear to part with that feeling. Being around the man was its own special kind of hell – the cop’s thoughts bouncing from arousal to aggravation to ennui and back again – but being alone would be so much worse, the distraction Spencer provided probably the only thing keeping Carlton sane.

“Try me, Spencer. I’m not in the mood for your shit tonight,” he'd said, staring the psychic down. “Now either spill or I’ll start dialing and you can explain to the Chief why you’re hitch-hiking it back to Santa Barbara.”

The threat was hollow, but Shawn didn’t know that. He’d never make the younger man hitch-hike, though he knew the psychic would probably do it simply out of spite, the tales of his travels around the world prior to coming back home having included the unsafe method transportation more than once. Really, if push came to shove he would probably call Henry to come and pick his son up, but he didn’t want to have to, knowing it would fracture the relationship he had with Shawn even further, the man’s dislike for his father evident.

“For fucks sake, Lassie!” Shawn exclaimed, turning to shoulder back past the detective, clearly frustrated with the response. “Is that a threat? Are you really threatening me?”

“Not a threat. A promise. And it’s nothing less than what you deserve for defying a direct order. I’ve waited long enough,” Carlton said, no longer trying to hide how frayed his nerves were, cracking the knuckles on his right hand with his thumb as he tried to dispel some of the pent-up irritation he felt. “Can’t you see how much this is killing me? She’s my fucking partner, Spencer! Don’t you think I deserve to know what the hell is going on?!”

“It’s _because_ I see how much this is killing you, jack-ass!” Shawn replied, holding both his ground and Carlton’s gaze, his chin jutting out in defiance. “Do you really think so low of me that you’d believe I was withholding important information for no reason, Lassie? Especially info about _Jules_? I’m not doing it to piss you off, I’m doing it because I know how you’re going to react, you idiot! And it’ll be way easier for you to cope with what I have to tell you if we have some booze in the room to take the damn edge off!”

He stopped barely long enough to breathe, the ire in his statement tapering as he implored, “Would you please just fucking trust me for once?”

Carlton took a step back and blinked, startled by the vehemence with which Shawn spoke. It was rare for Spencer to snap and this was the second time in one day, if you counted his fist through the wall as the first. It was even more uncommon for him to lose it on Carlton, the words ringing in his ears as he realized that the psychic wasn’t trying to aggravate him – he was trying to protect him. The thought warmed a cold dark place deep inside, and while it was nice to think that the psychic cared that much about his state of mind, it didn’t make it any easier to deal with. It just made him feel like an asshole, having forgotten that Spencer was just as fucked up and strung out as he was right now.

Maybe more so, seeing as he was the one who actually knew what was going on back home.

Carlton rubbed the back of his neck as he responded, fingers threading through the fine hairs there as he tried to temper his misdirected anger.

“I do trust you. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he admitted, sinking into the threadbare cushion of the chair he stood in front of with a sigh, his head dropping into his hands as the weight of the day hit him. “I just –“

Spencer looked at him; the rage in his eyes fading with the words, he cocked his head, patiently waiting for Carlton to finish.

“You’re right,” Carlton said after a minute, lifting his head and taking a deep breath to steady himself. “If it’s bad news, I’ll probably need a drink. And based on the fact that you won’t tell me...”

He stood and took a step toward the exit – toward Shawn – and Shawn said nothing, slipping back into that uncomfortable silence he kept springing on Carlton. The man just watched him warily as he walked to the door and opened it, swiping the key back off the nightstand where he’d set it and looking at the consultant. He leaned against the teak frame, nodding his head toward the car like that was all was needed to make Shawn get in, and when Shawn refused to move, he dropped his shoulders in defeat.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have threatened you.”

The apology sprung Spencer back to life again and the man kicked into motion, flicking the light-switch off as he walked through the door, barely brushing Carlton’s chest as he passed him by. It tingled, but Carlton forced the thought from his mind, now the exact wrong time to be thinking of their bodies pressed together in _any_ way.

“No, Lassie. You shouldn’t have. It was very Sergeant Friday in that one episode of Dragnet of you. But I’ll forgive you this time,” Shawn said, walking to the car and waiting with his fingers on the handle for Lassiter to unlock the door. “You’re buying, though. It’s penance. Also, my wallet’s buried in my bag somewhere. And I’m broke.”

Rolling his eyes, Carlton approached the vehicle, taking the fob from his pocket and pausing a moment to gather his nerve before letting Spencer in. He didn’t like how things were going, the last few hours fucking with his emotions in a way he was totally unprepared for, the ambivalence wearing him thin.

“Fine,” he sighed, looking at the man over the top of the car, the sinking feeling in his stomach making him feel sick. It was all too much all of a sudden, and he just didn’t know how much more he could take.

“Just tell me one thing. O’Hara…“

Shawn looked back like he knew what Carlton was going to ask and didn’t want to answer, his face a pale white, his eyes somehow both dull and shining bright.

Carlton continued, a chill racing through his body as he spoke the words that could change his whole world. It was information of the utmost importance and also the absolute last thing he wanted to hear. This limbo he was living in was a fucked-up kind of cushioning for a blow he knew was coming but he didn’t think he could take a step further without the knowledge of how his partner was doing, no matter how much it might wreck him.

He saw Shawn blink in slow motion. Felt the breeze drag across his skin like it lived there, the hairs on the back of his neck rising like they’d been electrified.

He was nervous, and he was nauseous, and he was also a little terrified.

Still, he had to know.

“Is she dead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter named for the Elle King song.


	2. Nothing Else Matters

* * *

 

Lassie was being a dick.

Lassie was being a dick, and as much as Shawn wanted to blame him – to rage and scream and maybe hit him really hard with one of the lumpy pillows the motel had provided – he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it because although the behavior was uncalled for, he completely understood. Instead he chose to forgive Lassiter, aware that as hard as it was for him to deal with life post kidnapping, Lassie must be feeling worse. It was  _his_  partner who was hovering on the precipice of death after all.

Though Shawn had known it was coming, the question still threw him, and he wondered if the cop understood the predicament he had put him in by forcing a response. It seemed like an easy answer – yes or no, no middle ground – but what if Juliet  _had_  been dead? He'd either tell Lassie and witness him break down in the middle of a seedy motel parking lot nearly two-hundred miles from home or he'd be the asshole who made him wait longer, thinking that she was six feet under. The asshole who made him wait longer and watched him silently stew as he was dragged through a store he clearly didn't want to be in.

Shawn didn't want to be that guy. Making Lassie wait until they'd gotten to King City had already been hell enough, and had it not been for the fact that he knew he was preventing a crash by doing so, he would have spilled the beans when he'd gotten the call. But he knew Lassiter and he knew Lassiter's moods, and he knew the man would have taken the horrible news the worst possible way, even though it wasn't the worst news they could have possibly gotten.

"No, Lassie," Shawn sighed, exhaling a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, his eyes on the giant palm tree in the middle of the lot so he didn't have to witness the man's reaction. He knew it would be one of more hope than deserved to be there and was completely unprepared to deal – with it or with the next question lobbed at him.

Silly him thinking Lassie really meant  _one_  when he'd said _one_.

"But it's bad?"

Shawn's eyes shifted back to Lassie's face, his heart sinking like a stone when he was proven wrong, the man's brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line, no hope to be found. It hurt more than he would've thought – more than the flicker of faith he'd expected to find there would have – and it left him speechless, for once not knowing what he was supposed to say.

Acid burned at the back of his throat and he struggled to keep it down, some unmentionable thing inside him snapping at the sight of Lassie's quiet resignation.

Fuck this.

Fuck this and fuck the serial killer that caused this shit and fuck these feelings that made him feel like he was going to hurl all over Lassie's cranberry red Crown Vic.

Just fuck it  _all_.

Shawn slid into the car instead of answering, swallowing hard and slamming the door behind him harder than was necessary. He took a deep breath, then another, and then one more. As he waited for the cop to join him, he fought to control himself, the fingers of his bad hand clenching unconsciously. The dull ache was the perfect thing to focus on and for the first time that day, Shawn was glad he'd put his fist through a wall. The reason he had still sucked more than a whore at a porn convention, but if there was anything good he could take out of it, it was be the physical pain to which he clung and desperately tried to transmute into something useful.

It took a moment for the door to open. A moment longer for Lassie to get in. And the silence stretched between them almost painfully. There was plenty on Shawn's mind, plenty he could share, but still, he said nothing. That had been happening a lot this trip – Shawn unable to find his voice or Lassie not lashing out when he normally would have – and though he had tried to wrap his mind around it, Shawn found that he couldn't. There were just too many variables.

Was it because of Juliet and the fact that they were both worried about her chances for survival, the likelihood growing smaller with every passing minute?

Was it stress over the fact that they were spending the most time they'd ever spent together driving hundreds of miles trapped in a car with no best friend or partner to buffer the tension between them?

Could it be anger or commiseration or fear or – ?

Shawn just didn't know.

Lassie's hand on his own had thrown another wrench in Shawn's ability to think straight.

He had spent the last few years in limbo, lusting after Lassiter with no reciprocation, his feelings somehow growing from something purely sexual to actual  _feelings._ It was weird, and it was awkward, and also incredibly confusing, which left Shawn unsure of what to do about the matter, if anything at all.

Most days he tried to ignore it, his affection leaking out in small spurts that the cop seemed to take as aggravating quirks instead of the cries of _'please pay attention to me'_ that they really were. It was odd. For such a smart guy, the Head Detective had never detected how they were directed solely at him. Because of that Shawn had long since resigned himself to one sided flirting, sure there was no way Carlton could feel the same way he did - which was to say, head over heels and completely terrified by the idea. But then the cop's hand had been on his.

Lassie's hand had been on his, and it was fine and consoling and all except that their fingers had been entwined for nearly an  _hour_ , which said a lot more than 'I'm sorry you're hurting'.

A  _whole_  lot more than 'I'm sorry you're hurting'.

As observant as he could be, the action was a language Shawn wasn't well-versed in, so he was left with no clue as to what that something was. And though he'd wracked his brain to find meaning in the gesture, the answer remained unfound. So, after much thought and no action, he decided simply to accept it, no questions asked. The feel of the detective's skin on his was the only thing that mattered – the only thing that  _could_  matter. Lassie was touching him and Shawn was letting him and there didn't have to be anything more than that – two boys trying their hardest to be men in a bubble of gentle intimacy that protected them from the cold, hard world outside.

Now, though, there was no intimacy at all.

Lassie was scared and pissed, and Shawn was pissed and irritated and neither said a word as Lassie started the car and pulled out of the lot, driving the single block to the nearest liquor store with his jaw clenched the whole time.

He'd handed Shawn his wallet when they got there and Shawn had taken it and gotten out. The implication that Lassie trusted him with his billfold wasn't lost on him, but neither was it important enough to address. Maybe in a different time. In a different place. With a different set of circumstances; it might matter then. But in that moment? Not so much. How could it when nothing mattered but the news ringing in Shawn's head, fighting against his reason as it tried to force its way into being said?

Bad hand trembling, Shawn grabbed the leather pouch. Their fingers grazed and even though Shawn felt a tingle from where Lassie had touched his skin – was sure by the look on Lassie's face that he had felt it too – he didn't say a thing. Lassie didn't either and his silence added to the growing pit in the psychic's stomach. He didn't want the detective to suffer more than he already was, but he knew that every moment they were away from the motel and the answers he needed to spill probably felt to Lassie like hell.

But it was hell regardless. Lassie just didn't know it yet.

Shawn had thought about it on the short ride over and realized that if their positions had've been reversed – if it had've been Gus lying there on life support and Lassie wasn't sharing the news – it was possible he would have punched the man right in his gorgeous Irish face. But Lassie hadn't hit him. He hadn't, even though he'd had good reason. And could have gotten away with it. And was easily the more violent of the two. But he  _hadn't_ , and Shawn had to count his blessings there.

The verbal reaming Lassie  _had_  given him hadn't been enjoyable, but Shawn had decided he wasn't going to hold it against the man when a tongue lashing was the far lesser of two evils. Juliet's dilemma had shown that life was too short to hold grudges, after all. No one ever knew how close to an end they were – just a step or a swing or a song away – and Shawn didn't want to live like that, worried and angry and lashing out. He didn't want to let his feelings take control.

Lassie was hurting.

Lassie was hurting, and he was hurting too and all they had 'til this was over was each other. Shawn wasn't going to let that tear them apart when it should be the thing that brought them together. No way, no how. It was him and Lassie against the world – Psych Man and the Cop Crusader, fighting crime and catching serial killers – and he knew that if they just stuck together, if they could somehow find a way to care for each other, they'd survive this trip and this hell and this heartache just fine.

Or at least, that's what he hoped.

It was a lot of thought for a man who tried to avoid thinking deeply, the realizations rushing at him in the time it took to get the foot from the car that he had. It made his head hurt and his heart hurt and his soul hurt, his insides churning when he considered all the ways their trip could sour.

Shawn didn't want the trip to sour. He didn't want things to go bad, or pear-shaped or sideways or any other direction that could make things difficult for the newfound duo. In fact, the only sour Shawn wanted on this impromptu yet depressing adventure was one of the whisky variety. Maybe some sour patch kids would be okay. Perhaps a heap of sour cream on top of some fully loaded nachos; he wouldn't say no to that. But nothing unless it tasted good, the psychic completely unable and equally unwilling to deal with the type of sour that resulted in uncomfortable questions or challenging emotions.

That was why, right there in front of the shitty little liquor store with its shitty shingled awning and shitty sign for on-sale Marlboros, Shawn decided he was willing to do pretty much anything to avoid it.

Because fuck pear-shaped and fuck sideways and fuck those feelings, too.

He deserved better and Lassie deserved better and Shawn didn't know how, but it was up to him to find a way to make this all okay. To spill the beans but not his tears and figure out how to keep them both strong enough to fight another day.

All he wanted was to hold Lassie until the ugly feelings went away. Not just his but the detective's, too. The detective's  _mostly_. And though it was incredibly, ridiculously,  _highly_  unlikely to happen, Shawn couldn't stop himself from hoping. Hoping, and needing one last look before he went inside – almost as if to make sure they were really together. That Lassiter trusted him, was still there waiting for him. Shawn needed to look to make sure this wasn't just some fucked-up fever dream or a Percocet-induced hallucination – a comforting story he'd concocted to make what had happened to Jules easier to bear.

It wasn't.

He was there, and Lassie was there, and Shawn halted in front of the frosted glass door, turning on his heel to see the detective waiting for him with a stare. Carlton sat stone-faced, a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as his head dropped to rest on its curve, the man finally allowing himself to feel once he thought nobody was there.

The sight of the cop clearly trying not to crumble made Shawn wish he hadn't turned around. But he had, and he had seen the emotion that wasn't meant for him and now his heart was breaking because of it – shattering into what felt like a hundred thousand little jagged-edged pieces scattered before him on the ground.

This. This was the physical manifestation of all he carried inside, the cop who rarely wore his heart on his sleeve showing it now in his eyes, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he found himself overwhelmed by the weight of everything he didn't know he didn't have to carry alone.

His own misery nothing compared to that of the dour detective's, the knowledge that Lassie was in agony tore Shawn to shreds. It made him feel like he'd pissed off the wrong witch and gotten himself Darth Willow'd. Like he was string cheese and the world the kid who peeled him. And it made him wonder when exactly it was that he'd begun to put Lassiter's well-being before his own.

He hurt when Lassie hurt, and the epiphany boggled his mind.

Shawn had never experienced that kind of empathy with anyone before – not even Gus, his best friend of more than two decades – and if he hadn't been worried about making the mood worse, he would have mulled it over. But Lassie was half a step from having a breakdown behind the wheel and Shawn knew that was something with which he couldn't deal and so he booked it inside, shoving his feels deep down to hide in the corner of his mind he saved for things like walking in on his parents doing the horizontal mambo and that one time he got pantsed in front of his fifth grade crush and the look Henry wore when he'd asked Shawn if he was gay – the corner of Can't Cope-At-All, Nope-Can't-Do-This, and _'Oh Dear God, Please Make This Go Away'_.

Shawn was in and out of the L Liquor Store in less than ten minutes, his purchases quickly found, the ugly old woman who should have been manning the desk back at their motel the only thing holding him up. Her incessant need to count out perfect change made Shawn a leg-shaking kind of frustrated, which had spawned another unexpected realization in him as he waited. Leg-shaking was one of Lassie's tics, not his. Shawn was a bouncer, not a shaker, and as he stopped himself and moved forward to put the six-pack of beer and bottle of Jack on the counter, he wondered how much else of the man had unexpectedly rubbed off on him.

It was the first time he had caught on to the fact that the influencing ran both ways. Shawn had always assumed his winning personality would leech out and latch on to Lassiter's over the years but had never realized that Lassiter's might do the same to him. That it had been a two-way street, not a one-way cruise. It was odd, and it was surprising, and it was also a little heart-warming, knowing that they affected each other in ways he was completely unprepared for. That Lassie had probably been unprepared for, too. It might also be part of the reason he hadn't been smacked a good one yet; the cop cared about him, but he probably didn't know he cared, his subconscious proving to be both stronger  _and_  quieter than his conscious mind.

Or so Shawn assumed.

It didn't really matter, though. Not when there was so much between them.

Maybe _too_ much between them – their feelings, their preconceived notions, life at the precinct, society's expectations (because while Shawn didn't give a shit about those, he assumed Lassie was likely to), this case, the chase, the hundreds of miles betwixt them and their homes, the inevitable lies Shawn told every day, the fact that their favorite young and bubbly detective currently lay in a hospital bed barely clinging to life by a single strand of her pretty blonde hair…

It was all too much. It was all too much and it created a mountain and a molehill and probably a cave full of emotion-eating hobgoblins in between him and the man he'd fallen in love with ages ago, making it impossible for Shawn to figure out how to deal. To figure out if this was just a crush or if he wanted it to be real.

Yeah. Love.

Shawn had never been in love before.

He'd loved  _things_ , sure, but the affection he had for his Thundercats action figures or the awe he'd felt every time HBK hit Sweet Chin Music out of nowhere was nothing compared to the warm and fuzzies and sometimes dark depressing doldrums he felt deep inside every time Lassie was anywhere near.

Love, or at least what he thought was love, also seemed to have made him a better person. A happier and funnier and more helpful person. Ever since falling for Lassie, he liked himself more, seemed to have a bit more purpose. Surprised himself on those special occasions when making  _Lassie's_  day better was the highlight of  _his_  day. Like when he'd guided the cop through the Vallery case, helping him solve the murder of the astronomer without taking an ounce of credit.

Lassie's demeanor towards him had changed after that. Loosened up a little. Had become a little more relaxed, though he was sure no one else had realized it – maybe not even the man himself. But that was when  _Shawn_  realized that he wanted to bring Lassie that kind of joy all the time.

This time, though, helping meant cushioning the blow of bad news with a bottle of booze and a shoulder to cry on. Not that Lassiter was a man prone to tears. But he was overstimulated and overtired and overemotional and Shawn knew that almost anything was possible, near tears himself at times during the last few days. He was trying to do everything he could to hold it together – wanted to be strong for Lassie and for Jules and for himself – but it was hard. It was hard, and Shawn was tired, and he hated the fact that he had to be the bad news bearer, notoriously horrible at doing heavy lifting of any kind, especially when it came to emotional forbearance.

So he decided not to bother, the bottle in his hand bought to do the job for him.

He would tell Lassie, they would drink until their brains floated, and then he would pass out, no thought in his pretty little head 'til morning.

Or that was the plan, anyhow.

* * *

Lassie hadn't spoken to him on the ride back, and honestly, Shawn was okay with that, again with no idea what he should say. He'd handed Lassie a glass when they got back to the hotel room, but Lassie sat in that shitty chair by the window and uncapped the Jack instead, taking a swig straight from the bottle. While Shawn stared, he took another, the psychic too shocked by the man's unusual lack of decorum to crack the beer he held in hand.

After the moment it took him to come to his senses, Shawn grabbed the two-six and pulled it away. Carlton sputtered. Choking on the air that passed his lips instead of the expected alcohol, his glower deepened when he heard what Shawn had to say.

"Strip."

The order was gentle, and he set both bottles down on the ugly old dresser beside him as he spoke, the first thing he'd uttered in almost twenty minutes.

Lassie's face turned both red and indignant.

"What the fuck, Spencer?" he exclaimed.

Shawn, of course, had been expecting it. He repeated himself, simply cocking his head and keeping his voice even so not to be smacked.

"Strip, Lassie. I don't really feel like having to de-clothe you if you're gonna get cut that fast. The booze is to take the edge off, not go swimming in. I don't care if you pass out in your pants, but you should take off the holster and your shoes at least. Don't want to turn into a real-life example of the Alcohol Induced Idiocy trope, do you?" he asked, then paused to add, "Besides, I think they'll charge us extra for cleanup if you accidentally shoot yourself in your soon to be drunken stupor."

Shawn knew he had a point and Lassie knew he had one too, so he silently stood and did as Shawn had demanded.

First came the standard blue SBPD windbreaker. Then the holster, slipped over his shoulders and laid with love on his nightstand. Carlton kicked off his shoes by the end of the bed next, then surprised Shawn when he shrugged out of his dress-shirt, the psychic too hypnotized by his nimble fingers working the buttons to say a word. When he stood there in sock feet, wearing nothing but an undershirt and his slacks, Lassie sank back down in the chair and reached his hand out for the promised liquor, leaning back only when its rim hit his lips once more.

"Your turn, Spencer," the cop said, coming up for air and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't care if you strangle yourself with your shirt in the night but do us both a favor; strip off all the bullshit and just be honest with me for once."

" _Once_? Lassifrass, I'm offended. You think I've only ever been honest with you  _once?_ "

"Shut it, Spencer. You promised."

Lassie near-growled, and Shawn shut his mouth, knowing he had.

"O'Hara. How bad is she? And I swear to God, if you don't tell me right now I will smother you with your pillow and tell everyone you died in your sleep. The KC Coroner is an idiot with a crush on me and I can damn-well guarantee she will corroborate my story."

"Lassie, who _doesn't_  have a crush on you?" Shawn asked, mouth deflecting, brain aghast that he was not only trying to buy himself more time but  _how_. They were there, and he had his drink – still unopened, Shawn too distracted by the PG peepshow to bother – so why was he stalling? Why was he stalling like  _this_? "Have you  _seen_  you? You're gorgeous. Those striking blue eyes and that sexy sloping nose and those lips that probably kiss like the devil but make you feel like you're in heaven…"

What the hell was wrong with him?

Why couldn't he shut up?!

All he had to do was give Lassie the facts and he could curl up in his corner of the room with a beer and the book he'd brought and pretend to fall asleep. But  _nooooooo_. He had to be running his mouth and spilling his secrets and making the cop look at him like he wanted to kill him six ways from Sunday, if only he could figure out the best way how. Which, obviously, was the smothering Carlton had already threatened.

"Spencer –" Lassie began, the tone of his voice both bemused and warning. Shawn sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself for the rest of the sentence. "What the hell are you – ?"

"I don't know!" he interrupted, inflection rising as he babbled, the psychic shifting in place with a nervous discomfort. "I mean, I'm not lying. You  _are_  gorgeous and I totally wanna take your mouth for a test drive. Have for a while now, actually –"

 _Oh, God!_  Seriously – why couldn't he stop?!

It was like Lassie's demandy-pants request for honesty was really a secret truth serum and if Shawn had an ounce of shame in his body, he'd have turned beet red by then. But he didn't, and his mouth had a mind of its own, so though his hands flew to his face in horror, his words continued to spill, Shawn's eyes searching Lassie's for the disgust or despair he assumed would be there when the admission of affection finally reached the cop's ears.

He was two for two then, dead wrong about the detective's expected reaction for the second time that night.

Lassie didn't look grossed out. He looked tired and exasperated and frustrated and confused, a little hopeful but mostly taken aback, and Shawn's mouth kept going and going and going like it was run on batteries, the Energizer Bunny standing beside him with a gun to his head and a threat in its everlasting and obnoxiously loud drum kit.

"– but I swear to God, Lassie, I don't mean to deflect. I'm sure you've noticed right now that I'm a little sleep deprived and a little stupid and I didn't plan on dragging this out or leading you on –"

Leading him on? Where the fuck had that come from?

"– but this Jules thing is heavy, man, and I am  _not_  good with emotions or commiseration or having to be the grown up in  _any_  situation let alone a situation like this so I'm sorry, but seriously, if you'll please just bear with me I swear I will get to the point eventually. Probably. Hopefully."

He paused.

Took a deep breath.

Then another, mortified and trying not to show it.

"Maybe."

Lassie blinked at him – once, twice, a third time – then cleared his throat and took another swig, handing the bottle to Shawn when he was finished.

"Spencer," he said slowly, dragging out his name.

Mildly chagrined, Shawn looked at him, trying his best to stop himself from hyperventilating.

"Take a fucking drink."

Lassie continued, his head resting on his fist, elbow propped up by the end of the armchair.

"You're shaking like a leaf. Or a frightened schoolgirl. Or some other stupid analogy I'm sure you have up your sleeve."

Shawn did. Not only was he curious as to why Lassie knew what a frightened schoolgirl even looked like, he actually had three more examples he could give, ready and waiting at the tip of his tongue. But now wasn't the time. Not only had his mouth flapped far too much already, he felt horrible focusing on himself, the weight of Juliet's predicament heavy enough to smother.

She was dying; their warrior princess turned into a victim. Struggling to stay alive as everything worked against her. A cop cut down in her prime, now a husk of a woman – a shell of a hellion rotting in a hospital bed. She was a body slowly turning to dust, and the only thing stopping her from crossing over was the stubborn Scottish spirit inside.

He accepted the offered bottle and took a swallow. Then, looking at Lassie from over the top of the rim, took another, vibrating so hard he felt like he might vomit.

"Breathe."

Lassie demanded, and Shawn did exactly that. Sinking to the edge of the detective's bed and handing back the bottle, his head dropped between his knees, his face buried in his hands as he mumbled to himself and hoped Lassie didn't hear.

"Godddddd. Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god."

His heart beat, hammering against his ribs so hard he felt like it might burst right out of his chest all gory Xenomorph style. He'd been  _so_  careful  _so_  long. Constantly flirting, yes, but never in ways that could be taken seriously. Now… now he'd blown it. Lassie had asked him for the truth and Shawn had given it. But it wasn't the truth either had expected. And it wasn't the truth that needed to be said.

What the fuck was Shawn supposed to do with that?

His words were the most honest he'd ever spoken but also ill-timed and unable to be taken back. How was he even supposed to look Lassie in the face now, let alone tell him about his partner courting death so hard they were practically engaged?

"Ohhh sweet baby Jesus wrapped in bacon on a stick. What the fuck did I just say?"

"Spencer," Carlton said again, quieter but firmer this time. "O'Hara…"

Shawn's head snapped up. His eyes flashed. He was surprised. Surprised, overjoyed, and a little worried that Lassiter seemed to be ignoring his admission. Lassie looked at him and that was surprising, too. Shawn thought the man would to fail to meet his gaze, the proclamation of affection likely to have made him uncomfortable. But he didn't, and it hadn't – or if it had, Lassie was really good at hiding it, which Shawn knew from his forays into undercover work was less than plausible, Lassie's acting skills nowhere near as good as his detecting ones.

"How is she?"

Shawn shook his head, his mouth working open like a fish out of water.

He closed it after a second, not sure how to begin.

"She's…"

He started, then stopped. Stood up and walked to where his beer was. Cracked it, then downed half in one swig, turning back to look at Lassie. The man was still staring, his fingers clutched around his own bottle while he waited far more patiently than Shawn had thought possible.

"She's alive."

Lassie pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Yes, Spencer. You may have mentioned that already. Care to continue?"

Shawn didn't, but he would. He owed that much to Lassiter at least, and he got himself comfortable as he prepared to speak, tucking his legs beneath him as he sank to the floor by Lassie's feet. The man's brow arched in surprise, and reaching out, Shawn clapped his fingers to the palm of his hand in the classic 'gimme' motion. When the cop looked at him inquisitively, he repeated the action, shaking his head no when Lassie offered him the bottle.

"What do you want, Spencer? Use your big boy words."

Shawn wanted the decorative pillow from behind the cop's back, so he said as much, snuggling it close when Lassiter worked it out and passed it over. He allowed himself a moment – just one – to relish in the heat radiating from it before he answered the question.

"Jules is… She's…"

Unable to keep eye contact, he looked away, boring a hole into Lassie's knee-cap with his gaze. He didn't know why this was so hard. Shawn was a pro at talking about inappropriate and uncomfortable things, so why was talking about  _this_  so tough? Could it be something as simple as the emotional investment they both had in the outcome? The fact that he couldn't bear to see Lassie crumble? How he felt so close to doing so himself? And really, did it matter?

He honestly didn't think it did.

Nothing did. Not really. Not anymore.

"Jules is on life support," he said on the exhale. His eyes began to burn, and he felt himself dig into the nailbed of his thumb, the pain helping him focus.

Helping him ground himself.

Stopping the tears before they fell.

He wished he didn't have to do this. Didn't have to tell him. Didn't have to hurt. He wished he could have saved her. Forced his way onto the case. Found the bastard sooner. But if wishes were fishes they'd have been eating seafood for days.

"She's alive. She's –" he reiterated, voice as dead as she'd nearly been. Nearly was. He saw a flicker of hope in Lassie's eyes, the hope he'd expected earlier at the car, and it killed him to squash it. But he had to. For whatever reason, the job was his, and he took another drink, needing all the courage he could get, liquid or no.

"She's – Juliet's stable now, or at least as stable as someone in a coma can be after…"

Lassie's face turned white. His mouth flew open, a choked sound escaping before he closed it again, jaw set, face carved from stone. "After  _what_ , Spencer?"

Shawn continued, needing to get it over with. Needing to let it all out. He didn't have to be a psychic to know what Lassie was thinking and though the load on his own soul felt lighter with every word spoken, the guilt at adding to Carlton's increased tenfold. The cop's disposition was grim, made grimmer the longer Shawn spoke. But he asked to hear it,  _needed_  to hear it, and learning – letting Shawn share – was the only way they could both go on.

"Jules… she – she flatlined about an hour after we left. It – it took them longer than they expected to bring her back. They don't know…"

Eyes dropping to his hands, Shawn's breath picked up pace. He heard a small sound, almost a squeak, and thought he was mistaken. The hard-ass detective had never to his knowledge made that noise before, so it couldn't have been Lassie.

It  _couldn't_  have _._

Lassie was the strong one. He was unshakable. Indefatigable. His solid, dependable, stoic demeanor was the one thing they could always count on. Sure, the man had feelings, but he never  _showed_  them. And that's what usually got them through – Lassie being the adamantium skeleton that kept their worlds from shattering.

He couldn't be breaking. There was just no way.

But then Shawn continued, and Lassie made it again and a tear finally fell from the psychic's eyes – first one, then a hundred, then a hundred thousand more, the uncharacteristic sound the thing that sliced through all the bullshit holding him together.

"They don't know if she's gonna come out of it, Carlton. The doctors don't know how or if she's gonna heal," he admitted, words muffled by the half-wracked sob of anguish wrapped around Lassie's name. The use was a sign of the severity of the news and Shawn hadn't even realized he'd done it. It hurt, telling Lassie the truth. Hurt worse than hearing it had. And he couldn't stop himself from crying. Tears welled in his eyes as his voice grew harder, the reality of the situation sinking in and bringing about an icy rage. "Vick said there might be brain damage, but they won't be able to tell for sure until she wakes up. Which could be any time between now and never."

He paused, eyes imploring as he searched Lassie's face for a promise that things would be okay – a promise he knew wouldn't be there but still couldn't stop himself from looking for.

"It could be  _never_ , Lassie! What do we do if it's never?" His voice cracked as he demanded an answer, panic rising when one failed to come. "What do we do if she stays a vegetable, Lassie? And not even the fun kind like broccoli or asparagus! What do we do if she's a fucking  _lima bean_  forever? What then?!"

Lassie responded coldly, ignoring Shawn's hysteria as if he was in shock. Which he probably was, Shawn thought, his blue eyes glassy and complexion paler than pale.

"O'Hara… O'Hara has a DNR. She told me about it when I updated my will after Victoria and I divorced. It's in hers. In her living will."

Feeling ill, Shawn shot to his feet. Carlton continued, fingers white around the neck of the Jack Daniels, his grip so intense Shawn thought he heard the glass crack.

"Her mother has it in a safe in their family home. Juliet – O'Hara – she said that if anything happened, to let her die. She said she was like me. If anything happened, she just wanted to go, so we could all let go. She didn't – she doesn't want to be a  _burden_."

Lassie spat out the word like it was poison on his tongue. Like he couldn't ever fathom how Jules wouldn't have thought they'd  _want_  to care for her. Like it had personally offended him, and he couldn't wait to kick it in its lack of teeth.

He didn't even realize that they'd want to care for him too, and it broke Shawn's heart to hear.

Lassiter just stared over his head, his voice falling silent as the truth of the matter hit them. Jules wanted to  _die_. She wanted to die and had been prevented from doing so once already and if she didn't get better soon her mother was going to show up – could have  _already_  shown up – with orders to let her kick the bucket so hard it made a fucking field goal.

"How – how can someone  _do_  something like that, Lassie?!" Shawn exclaimed, his arms flung out in an emotional fury. "How the fuck can some sick fuck do that to her?"

Lassiter opened his mouth to answer, but Shawn steamrolled over him, turning his frustrations on the cop instead.

"And how the  _fuck_  could you keep me off the case when you  _knew_  someone was out there doing shit like that? Fucking  _Jules_ , man! I should have been there! I could have seen something! I could have fucking stopped it!"

The smash of his beer bottle against the wall startled them both, the Stella Artois slipping from his fucked-up fingers before he'd even realized he'd thrown it. He stared at the wet spot, suds dripping down the wall, the only sound in the room the heaving of his breath. It was like time had stopped, his enveloping anger as thick as molasses.

The tension in the room grew heavy and he felt the rush of blood as it pumped through his veins. Heard the hollow sound ringing where his heart used to be. Sensed his head about to explode as he tried to understand.

His face was wet.

His face was wet, and his knees were weak and throwing things just wasn't enough. It wasn't enough because it helped nothing, and he could help nothing, and Jules was fucking  _dying_  or maybe even dead by then and he was just as fucking useless as he'd always been, his fake super-powers having done nothing but gotten them to the warehouse just in time to watch her swing.

Nothing. He was nothing and it was all worth nothing and the room began to spin until -

"Shawn."

His head turned slowly, the sound of the syllable that should be so familiar to him seeming alien as it left Lassie's lips. Legs giving out, Shawn dropped to the floor, the sound of his own name knocking the air straight out of him. He wanted it to stop. Wanted the heartache and the pain and the heaviness to stop. The fear and the loneliness and the failure – the determination to do good, to do better, to matter. To want to matter, but constantly fucking  _fail_.

He just wanted it to stop.

Surprisingly, Lassie sank to the floor with him, sitting cross-legged as he reached out and pulled Shawn close. His hand ran along the nape of Shawn's neck, the psychic half-sitting in his lap with his sob-soaked face pressed against the man's chest as he murmured reassurances.

"Wha – what are you doing?"

It should have been obvious, but it wasn't. It was the last thing in the world he had expected from the detective, and Shawn realized then that he needed to stop expecting  _anything_  from him because Lassie just kept blowing those expectations out of the water.

"There isn't much I can say with words," Lassie whispered, his arms wrapped around Shawn's crumpled form. "They always fail me when I need them most. But you… you're hurting. And I get it."

Shawn looked up, tear-streaked face inches away from Lassie's own. "And?"

"And I can help, if you'll let me."

He paused, next words laced with uncertainty.

"This… this  _is_  helping, isn't it?"

It was. Shawn was confused, but he'd take the comfort, Lassie's body – his arms, his words, his commiseration – calming him. He nodded, and Lassie nodded back, quiet and curt.

"Thought it might." His hand stilled on Shawn's neck, then slid to his shoulder as he continued, fingers rubbing circles into flesh with the intent to release the spring-coiled tension he found there. "It wasn't me, you know. I wanted to call you in from the beginning."

"It wasn't – ?"

The psychic's voice cracked as he spoke, his confusion growing.

He had been so pissed when he'd been denied involvement – almost as throw-things-mad as he was right now, so sure that Carlton had prevented him from joining the case. He'd thought the cop had been worried that ' _the fake psychic might fuck it up'_ , too much on the line with the perp being so high-profile. Lassie was always the one trying to keep him from getting hired, after all. Always the one trying to get him fired if he'd been unable to keep him off the job. Always the one suggesting he was just going to get in the way. But apparently this time he hadn't.

"Me," Lassie clarified. "I didn't do it, Spencer. It was all Vick. It was her call."

"What?"

"It wasn't me. Shawn –"

There it was again. His name, just as jarring as the first time.

"– I might not like your methods, but in a situation like this, the results are all that matter."

Lassie paused again, fingers working their way down Shawn's spine, chills racing through the psychic's body at the touch, so much more intimate than he could have ever imagined it to be. He was there in Lassie's embrace and everything was wrong,  _so_  wrong, but if he shut his eyes and leaned in close and tried his best to turn off his brain, for a moment – one pure, beautiful, too short moment – he could pretend things were going to be okay. That they  _were_ okay.

"They're the only thing that does."

Shawn's head spun.

Results were all that mattered.

In a situation like this, results were all that mattered.

In a situation like women getting tortured and hanged.

In a situation like Jules on her deathbed, every breath her last until proven otherwise.

In a situation like Shawn crying himself silly on a crappy motel floor, his body shaking with silent sobs.

Results were all that mattered, and Lassie held him in his arms, throwing caution to the wind for what was probably the first time ever. Results were all that mattered, and he comforted Shawn, regardless of what it meant or what he had to work through to do it, Shawn's state of being clearly more important to him than he'd ever let on.

Results were all that mattered.

They were everything.

The  _only_  thing.

A phone rang, the trill of bells cutting through the silence.

Lassie sighed. Releasing Shawn, he rolled his body back to fish it from the pocket of his jacket where he left it, holding it up for the psychic to see.

It was one in the morning.

It was one in the morning and Vick's name graced the screen.

It was one in the morning and Vick's name graced the screen, which could only mean one thing.

_News._

And probably not good.

Shawn shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter named for the Metallica song.


End file.
